The Right Kind of Girl Page 4

  Her mother was soon awake again, content to lie quietly, not talking much and finally with an eye on the clock, Emma kissed her goodbye. ‘I’ll be here tomorrow,’ she promised, and went down to the main entrance.

  She had just reached it when the Rolls came soundlessly to a halt beside her. The professor got out and opened her door, got back in and drove away with nothing more than a murmured greeting, but presently he said, ‘Your mother looks better, does she not?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She slept for most of the afternoon but she looks much better than I expected.’

  ‘Of course, she’s being sedated, and will be for the next forty-eight hours. After that she will be free of pain and taking an interest in life again. She’s had a tiring time…’

  It was still raining—a cold rain driven by an icy wind—and the moor looked bleak and forbidding in the early dusk. Emma, who had lived close to it all her life, was untroubled by that; she wondered if the professor felt the same. He had said that he lived near Exeter. She wondered exactly where; perhaps, after a few days of going to and fro, he would be more forthcoming. Certainly he was a very silent man.

  The thought struck her that he might find her boring, but on the following day, when she ventured a few remarks of a commonplace nature, he had little to say in reply, although he sounded friendly enough. She decided that silence, unless he began a conversation, was the best policy, so that by the end of a week she was no nearer knowing anything about him than when they had first met. She liked him—she liked him very much—but she had the good sense to know that they inhabited different worlds. He had no wish to get to know her—merely to offer a helping hand, just as he would have done with anyone else in similar circumstances.

  Her mother was making good progress and Emma scanned the local paper over the weekend, and checked the advertisements outside the newsagents in the hope of finding a job.

  Mrs Smith-Darcy had, surprisingly, sent Alice with her wages, and Emma had made a pot of coffee and listened to Alice’s outpourings on life with that lady. ‘Mad as fire, she was,’ Alice had said, with relish. ‘You should ‘ave ‘eard ‘er, Miss Trent. And that lunch party— that was a lark and no mistake—’er whingeing away about servants and such like. I didn’t ‘ear no kind words about you and your poor ma, though. Mean old cat.’ She had grinned. ‘Can’t get another companion for love nor money, either.’

  She had drunk most of the coffee and eaten all the biscuits Emma had and then got up to go. ‘Almost forgot,’ she’d said, suddenly awkward, ‘me and Cook thought your ma might like a few chocs now she’s better. And there’s one of Cook’s steak and kidney pies— just wants a warm-up—do for your dinner.’

  ‘How lucky I am to have two such good friends,’ Emma had said and meant it.

  Going to the hospital on Monday, sitting quietly beside Sir Paul, she noticed him glance down at her lap where the box of chocolates sat.

  ‘I hope that those are not for your mother?’ ‘Well, yes and no. Cook and Alice—from Mrs Smith-Darcy’s house, you know—gave them to me to give her. I don’t expect that she can have them, but she’ll like to see them and she can give them to her nurses.’

  He nodded. ‘I examined your mother yesterday evening. I intend to have her transferred to Moretonhampstead within the next day or so. She will remain there for two weeks at least, three if possible, so that when she returns home she will be quite fit.’

  ‘That is good news. Thank you for arranging it,’ said Emma gratefully, and wondered how she was going to visit her mother. With a car it would have been easy enough.

  She would have to find out how the buses ran—probably along the highway to Exeter and then down the turn-off to Moretonhampstead halfway along it—but the buses might not connect. She had saved as much money as she could and she had her last week’s wages; perhaps she could get the car from Mr Dobbs again and visit her mother once a week; it was thirty miles or so, an hour’s drive…

  She explained this to her mother and was relieved to see that the prospect of going to a convalescent home and starting on a normal life once more had put her in such good spirits that she made no demur when Emma suggested that she might come only once a week to see her.

  ‘It’s only for a few weeks, Emma, and I’m sure I shall have plenty to keep me occupied. I’ve been so well cared for here, and everyone has been so kind. Everything’s all right at home? Queenie is well?’

  ‘She’s splendid and everything is fine. I’ll bring you some more clothes, shall I?’ She made a list and observed, ‘I’ll bring them tomorrow, for the professor didn’t say when you were going—when there’s a vacancy I expect—he just said a day or two.’

  When she got up to go her mother walked part of the way with her, anxious to show how strong she had become. By the lifts they said goodbye, though, ‘I’m a slow walker,’ said Mrs Trent. ‘It won’t do to keep him waiting.’

  For once, Emma was glad of Sir Paul’s silence, for she had a lot to think about. They were almost at Buckfastleigh when he told her that her mother would be transferred on the day after tomorrow.

  ‘So tomorrow will be the last day I go to the hospital?’

  ‘Yes. Talk to Sister when you see her tomorrow; she will give you all the particulars and the phone number. Your mother will go by ambulance. The matron there is a very kind woman, there are plenty of staff and two resident doctors so your mother will be well cared for.’

  ‘I’m sure of that. She’s looking foward to going; she feels she’s really getting well.’

  ‘It has been a worrying time for you.’ his voice was kind ‘—but I think she will make a complete recovery.’

  Indoors she put the pie in the oven, fed an impatient Queenie and sat down to add up the money in her purse—enough to rent a car from Mr Dobbs on the following weekend and not much over. She ate her supper, packed a case with the clothes her mother would need and went to put the dustbin out before she went to bed.

  The local paper had been pushed through the letterbox. She took it back to the kitchen and turned to the page where the few advertisements were and there, staring her in the face, was a chance of a job. It stated:

  Wanted urgently—a sensible woman to help immediately for two or three weeks while present staff are ill. Someone able to cope with a small baby as well as normal household chores and able to cook.

  Emma, reading it, thought that the woman wouldn’t only have to be sensible, she would need to be a bundle of energy as well, but it was only for two or three weeks and it might be exactly what she was looking for. The phone number was a local one too.

  Emma went to bed convinced that miracles did happen and slept soundly.

  In the morning she waited with impatience until half-past eight before going round to use Mr Dobbs’s phone. The voice which answered her was a woman’s, shrill and agitated.

  ‘Thank heaven—I’m at my wits’ end and there’s no one here. The baby’s been crying all night…’

  ‘If you would give me your address. I live in Buckfastleigh.’

  ‘So do I. Picket House—go past the otter sanctuary and it’s at the end of the road down a turning on the left. You’ve got a car?’

  ‘No, a bike. I’ll come straight away, shall I?’

  She listened to a jumble of incoherent thanks and, after phoning the surgery to cancel her lift with Sir Paul, hurried back to the house. Queenie, having breakfasted, was preparing to take a nap. Emma left food for her, got into her coat, tied a scarf over her head and fetched her bike. At least it wasn’t raining as she pedalled briskly from one end of the little town to the other.

  Picket House was a rambling old place, beautifully maintained, lying back from the lane, surrounded by a large garden. Emma skidded to the front door and halted, and before she had got off her bike it was opened.

  ‘Come in, come in, do.’ The girl wasn’t much older than Emma but there the resemblance ended, for she was extremely pretty, with fair, curly hair, big blue eyes and a dainty little nose. She pu
lled Emma inside and then burst into tears. ‘I’ve had a dreadful night, you have no idea. Cook’s ill with flu and so is Elsie, and the nurse who’s supposed to come sent a message to say that her mother’s ill.’

  ‘There’s no one who could come—your mother or a sister?’

  ‘They’re in Scotland.’ She dismissed them with a wave of the hand. ‘And Mike, my husband, he’s in America and won’t be back for weeks.’ She wiped her eyes and smiled a little. ‘You will come and help me?’

  ‘Yes—yes, of course. You’ll want references…?’

  ‘Yes, yes—but later will do for that. I want a bath and I’ve not had breakfast. To tell the truth, I’m not much of a cook.’

  ‘The baby?’ asked Emma, taking off her coat and scarf and hanging them on the elaborate hat-stand in the hall. ‘A boy or a girl?’

  ‘Oh, a boy.’

  ‘Has he had a feed?’

  ‘I gave him one during the night but I’m not sure if I mixed it properly; he was sick afterwards.’

  ‘You don’t feed him yourself?’

  The pretty face was screwed up in. horror. ‘No, no, I couldn’t possibly—I’m far too sensitive. Could you move in until the nurse can come?’

  ‘I can’t live here, but I’ll come early in the morning and stay until the baby’s last feed, if that would do?’

  ‘I’ll be alone during the night…’

  ‘If the baby’s had a good feed he should sleep for the night and I’ll leave a feed ready for you to warm up.’

  ‘Will you cook and tidy up a bit? I’m hopeless at housework.’

  It seemed to Emma that now would be the time to learn about it, but she didn’t say so. ‘I don’t know your name,’ she said.

  ‘Hervey—Doreen Hervey.’

  ‘Emma Trent. Should we take a look at the baby before I get your breakfast?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I suppose so. He’s very small, just a month old. You’re not a nurse, are you?’

  ‘No, but I took a course in baby care and housewifery when I left school.’

  They were going upstairs. ‘Would you come for a hundred pounds a week?’

  ‘Yes.’ It would be two or three weeks and she could save every penny of it.

  They had reached the wide landing, and from somewhere along a passage leading to the back of the house there was a small, wailing noise.

  The nursery was perfection—pastel walls, a thick carpet underfoot, pretty curtains drawn back from spotless white net, the right furniture and gloriously warm. The cot was a splendid affair and Mrs Hervey went to lean over it. ‘There he is,’ she said unnecessarily.

  He was a very small baby, with dark hair, screwed up eyes and a wide open mouth. The wails had turned to screams and he was waving miniature fists in a fury of infant rage.

  ‘The lamb,’ said Emma. ‘He’s wet; I’ll change him. When did he have his feed? Can you remember the time?’

  ‘I can’t possibly remember; I was so tired. I suppose it was about two o’clock.’

  ‘Is his feed in the kitchen?’

  ‘Yes, on the table. I suppose he’s hungry?’

  Emma suppressed a desire to shake Mrs Hervey. ‘Go and have your bath while I change him and feed him. Perhaps you could start breakfast—boil an egg and make toast?’

  Mrs Hervey went thankfully away and Emma took the sopping infant from his sopping cot. While she was at it he could be bathed; everything she could possibly need was there…

  With the baby tucked under one arm, swathed in his shawl, she went downstairs presently. The tin of babymilk was on the table in the kind of kitchen every woman dreamt of. She boiled a kettle, mixed a feed and sat down to wait while it cooled. The baby glared at her from under his shawl. Since he looked as if he would cry again at any minute she talked gently to him.

  She had fed him, winded him and cuddled him close as he dropped off and there was still no sign of his mother, but presently she came, her make-up immaculate, looking quite lovely.

  ‘Oh, good, he’s gone to sleep. I’m so hungry.’ She smiled widely, looking like an angel. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come, Emma—may I call you Emma?’

  ‘Please do,’ said Emma. She had her reservations about feeling glad as she bore the baby back to his cot.

  CHAPTER THREE

  BY THE end of the day Emma realised that she would have her hands full for the next week or two. Mrs Hervey, no doubt a charming and good-natured woman, hadn’t the least idea how to be a mother.

  Over lunch she had confided to Emma that she had never had to do anything for herself—she had been pampered in succession by a devoted nanny, a doting mother and father, and then an adoring husband with money enough to keep her in the style to which she had been accustomed. ‘Everyone’s ill,’ she had wailed. ‘My old nanny ought to be here looking after me while Mike’s away, but she’s had to go and look after my sister’s children—they’ve got measles. And the mother of this wretched nanny who was supposed to come. Just imagine, Emma, I came home from the nursing home and Cook and Elsie got ill the very next day!’

  ‘You were in the nursing home for several weeks? Were you ill after the baby was born?’

  ‘No, no. Mike arranged that so I could have plenty of time to recover before I had to plunge into normal life again.’

  Emma had forborne from telling her that most women plunged back into normal life with no more help than a willing husband. She’d said cautiously, ‘While I’m here I’ll show you how to look after the baby and how to mix the feeds, so that when Nanny has her days off you’ll know what to do.’

  ‘Will you? How sensible you are.’

  ‘Hasn’t the baby got a name?’

  ‘We hadn’t decided on that when Mike had to go away. We called him “Baby”—I suppose he’ll be Bartholemew, after Mike’s father, you know. He’s very rich.’

  It seemed a pity, Emma had reflected, to saddle the baby with such a name for the sake of future moneybags. ‘May I call him Bart?’ she’d asked.

  ‘Why not?’ Mrs Hervey had cast an anxious glance at Emma. ‘You’re quite happy here? It’s a long day…’

  As indeed it was.

  After the first day, ending well after nine o’clock in the evening, Emma saw that she would have to alter things a bit. A little rearranging was all that was required. Bart needed a six o’clock feed, so she agreed to make it up the evening before for his mother to warm up.

  ‘I’ll come in at eight o’clock and get your breakfast, and while you are having it I’ll bath Bart and make up his feed for ten o’clock. When he’s had his two o’clock feed I’ll leave him with you—he’ll sleep for several hours and you will be able to rest if you want to.

  ‘I’d like to go home for an hour or two, to do the shopping and so on, but I’ll be back in plenty of time to see to his evening feed and get your supper. I’ll stay until nine o’clock, so that you can get ready for bed before I go, then all you need do is feed him at ten o’clock. I’ll make up an extra feed in case he wakes at two o’clock.’

  Mrs Hervey looked at her with her big blue eyes. ‘You’re an angel. Of course you must go home—and you will stay until nine o’clock?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You’ll have lunch and supper with me, won’t you?’

  ‘Thank you, that would be nice. How about shopping? It wouldn’t hurt Bart to be taken for an airing in his pram.’

  ‘I’d be scared—all the traffic, and it’s so far to the shops. I’ve always phoned for anything I want.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll take him for half an hour in the mornings when the weather’s not too bad.’

  ‘Will you? I say, I’ve just had such a good idea. Couldn’t you take him with you in the afternoons?’

  Emma had been expecting that. ‘Well, no. You see, it’s quite a long way and I go on my bike—I haven’t anywhere to put the pram. Besides, you are his mum; he wants to be with you.’

  ‘Oh, does he? You see, I’m not sure what to do when he cries…’
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br />   ‘Pick him up and see if he’s wet. If he is, change him, and give him a cuddle.’

  ‘It sounds so easy.’

  ‘And it will be very nice if you know how to go on, so that when the nanny comes you can tell her how you want things done.’

  Mrs Hervey, much struck with this idea, agreed.

  It took a day or two to establish some sort of routine. Mrs Hervey was singularly helpless, not only with her son but about the running of a household; she had always had time to spend on herself and this time was now curtailed. But although she was so helpless, and not very quick to grasp anything, she had a placid nature and was very willing to learn.

  The pair of them got on well and Bart, now that his small wants were dealt with promptly, was a contented baby.

  Emma phoned her mother during the week and was relieved to hear that she had settled down nicely, and when Emma explained that she had a job, just for a week or two, and might not be able to go and see her, she told her comfortably that she was quite happy and that Emma wasn’t to worry.

  It was on Saturday that Sir Paul Wyatt, on his way home from a conference in Bristol, decided to visit Mrs Trent. He had seen nothing of Emma in Buckfastleigh, and on the one occasion when he had given way to a wish to visit her the house had been locked up and there had been no sign of her. Staying with friends, probably, he’d decided, and didn’t go again.

  Mrs Trent was delighted to see him. She was making good progress and seemed happy enough. Indeed, he wondered if she might not be able to return home very shortly. Only her enthusiastic description of Emma’s new job made him pause, for, if he sent her home, Emma would have to give it up, at least for a few weeks, and he suspected that the Trent household needed the money.

  ‘Emma has a local job?’ he asked kindly.

  ‘Yes. She is able to cycle there every day. It’s with a Mrs Hervey; she lives at the other end of Buckfastleigh—a very nice house, Emma says. There is a very new baby and Mrs Hervey’s cook and maid are both ill and the nanny she has engaged was unable to come, so Emma’s helping out until she turns up and the other two are back.’